


Tales of Enarlon

by wolflove



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: 4th Wall mentions of DM as floating being watching only Mott can glimpse..., Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Tabletop Gaming, Drama, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Elves, F/F, F/M, Half-Elves, M/M, One ridiculous player taking our sessions and inflicting them upon you all, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-01 18:01:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolflove/pseuds/wolflove
Summary: Take a RolePlay heavy D&D Homebrew Campaign, throw in one player who writes fanfic, others who are utterly ridiculous, let things spiral from there and... Welcome to Tales of Enarlon. Based on the Eons of Enarlon Campaign run on Roll20.





	1. An Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all. Welcome to the utter hilarity of ToE, based on EoE on Roll20. The characters are the property of their individual creators who I adore as my fellow TTRPers. The Homebrew World is the property of its creator, our wonderful overlord Necro. The original concepts behind races, and the abilities portrayed within are the properties of their creators with the glorious D&D.
> 
> This will not go quite like a normal story. Largely this will be for amusement and entertainment factor based off our ridiculous sessions. I will take interesting things that happen and spin a tale based on them. Giving you all snapshots into this little world we all, together, bring life to. We hope you all enjoy this, but this is also purely for our enjoyment as well.

In the multi-verse, there are many lands. Lands as vast and wild as the imagination. Among these, in the realms of Dungeons and Dragons, Magic and flights of fancy… there is a world. The World of Enarlon. A world where the races common to these realms exist, or once had existed before. While the lifespans may differ slightly, long-lived races not nearly as long as in others, still they love. They thrive. Milling about Enarlon in a neverending race of superiority and survival.

Upon this planet, there lives a group. And much like many other groups that gain renown and infamy, there are many tales lost, the facts get skewed. All those times before fame arises relegated to naught but memory.

While some have come and gone from the ranks of this oh so humble gathering of future heroes, a few remain. They are…

Mott, the white-haired half-elven cleric. A young enigma with a soul older than the years lived upon Enarlon. Having had a hand taken away, and then given back, lives taken by the magic Mott to righteously wielded… A strange mixture of world-weary and naivety.

Aralynn Wolfsbane, the blue-haired half-elven druid. Buxom with piercing green eyes. As wild as the natural world which she protects, as fierce as the large crag cat who is her companion, friend and, in so many ways, her child. Open, forthright and blunt. Do not let the innocence of her countenance fool you, an army to command is but a chitter away.

Fela Sovoy, the fair-haired High Elf noble. Elegant and well spoken, her words capable of charming the most discerning of listeners. Made sweeter only by the sound of her singing. A bard who is far more than what she seems. Don’t let her daintiness fool you, for as lovely as her words can be they can also cut deep to leave scars both visible and deep within.

And finally, Sontar Erris, the dark-haired and equally noble High Elf male. A rouge of a particularly observant nature, little gets past his keen eye. He is not, though, the silent observer, but more the arrogant noble with cutting words and a demeanor that disguises that fact he sees every nuance. Or so his oh so _humble_ self would leave you to believe.

Together they make the Zephyr Vanguard. Formed in Port de Rynnel within the kingdom of Ellreya. With two Elven Nobles of the land and two half-elves hailing from two vastly different kingdoms, their story only now truly begins. And so bask in their laughter, their sorrow, their word games, and their loves.

Welcome to the Tales of Enarlon.


	2. What A Gentle Breeze... aka Mottar?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which a player misses a session and as such must pay the ultimate price... we get to have some fun at his expense.
> 
> Really, we wish you luck with your exams and you better ace them! But we're still going to fuck with you.

The Zephyr Vanguard was not always the Zephyr Vanguard. It was once nameless, it also once was alluded to as the Marcus Square Five, but times change. And really, using a name based off of an event that only one person within the group was even present for was not realistic. They were not even a group of five! It was completely illogical. It led to false perceptions. And while Sontar was many things, illogical was not one of them.

Right now he lazed in the sun, acting for all the world as if he did not mind the predicament he was in. Out in the wilds, not a speck of civilization in sight, recovering from an attack by lizards in the pre-dawn hours. It was already a bit much to expect him to get proper rest on the hard, unforgiving ground beneath him. But to expect him to sleep well after being attacked by lizards? For shame. Well, at least that is how I, the narrator, portrays the inner workings of the mind contained within the rakish figure posing as if at ease. A pose seemingly perfected by many others afflicted by his sort of arrogance.

Seemingly unconcerned as his compatriots casually discuss and quickly select the very name he would come to be associated with. The truth was that he dozed. Not really paying attention as he attempted to recover from the trauma. The lizards, the cat he begrudgingly admitted was very useful, and the shocking kiss of the wildling with blue hair. I am sure the toes of his family would curl to know a half-breed's lips had touched his cheek!

Well, he should get used to it, the half-breeds were not going anywhere.

Though perhaps he protested much at times, for as he had done before, he called the young one over. Surely this strange, youthful boy did not ask to be born as he was. With hair that seemed to be more white with each passing day. His features androgynous and fetching in an almost ethereal way. Well, if anything, he was amusing. Engaging with a quick wit and quicker tongue, always ready with a barb. I imagine Sontar often found it amusing to bait the youth. Almost as much as he enjoyed proving his superior intellect, such as now with the guise of teaching the youth to play Chess.

Sontar let his guard down, though, as Aralynn came near.

“Can I braid your hair?” she asked Sontar with a slight tilt to her head, a look upon her face that spoke of interest and curiosity. Fela remained playing her violin softly nearby seeming unconcerned. The large crag cat known as Duma slumbering away still. Sensing nothing amiss and knowing she did well enough with her own hair and the little braids and beads in Duma’s fur, he thought… why not?

Such was this one’s folly. For you see she sat behind Sontar, and as he started to play Mott, the Druid began to work. He was not in a position to see her devious looks to Mott. The pain and tugs of her braiding his hair distracted the Elven male enough he missed the looks the youth gave her in return. Oh, foolish, arrogant elf. Soon Mott gave a whoop of victory and jumped up. Aralynn’s hand met the young one’s with a hearty slap mixed with laughter.

“Well, how does it look?” Sontar was right to be nervous and more concerned with his hair than losing to one who, so far, only had one lesson in chess.

“It looks great,” Mott said with a cheeky grin.

“My best work yet,” Aralynn pipped up with at nearly the same time.

Then… “You look like shit,” Fela’s cultured voice said in her soft yet matter-of-fact tone.

It would be some time before the laughter died and the cursing ended as Sontar attacked the mess of tight, wild and utterly ridiculous cornrows Aralynn had done his hair up in, ala a look I would best compare to the great Al Yankovic in his wonderful rendition of Gansta’s Paradise. (Alas, those are the songs of a different world, but I hope you understand nevertheless.)

One would think that, with their packing up and continuing on their trip, this was all to be had. But no, not at all. For Sontar and Mott dance a peculiar dance. Particularly in dreams.

Dreams of this youth in his late teens with his soft, full lips. Eyes opening largely, a blush painting pale cheeks. A hitch of a breath as the gallant Sontar leans in close. Those pale eyes, they seem less cold so close up, do they not? Don’t his lips taste sweet as you claim them, oh devious nobleman?

Don’t the curves felt beneath the travelworn clothes feel soft with a core of hardness beneath? Doesn’t that young, youthful and pliant body arch and meld perfectly up against yours as you lay him down upon the ground?

Oh yes, and those sweet, sweet sounds. Breathy moans slipping out from between his lips only to be eaten up by your greedy mouth.

Such a pity, though, that dawn breaks and the camp comes to life once more as your tent is shaken. Waking you from your dream, you scandalous noble. Perhaps less wine before bed next time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Flamers and haters will be fed to crag cats. Everyone else gets love from fluffy, lovable Duma.


End file.
